Image: “Donald Trump” by Gage Skidmore
You win the election, against all odds. Your wife is hardly speaking to you because of the payoff to the porn stars. And those rumors about the pee tape just won’t go away. Worst of all, now you have a country to run.
You never thought you’d win it. You won’t tell anyone this, but you’re not looking forward to it. It was so much more fun to campaign—get out there on stage, whip everyone up—and the ratings! Business gold.
But maybe you can turn this to your favor. Get those foreign dignitaries staying in your hotel and you can start paying back your… business acquaintances. You pray the Russians will be patient.
The American public, you’re not worried about—they’re a bunch of chumps. They’re too busy talking about the women who claim you groped them or looked up their skirts or whatever. They’re just women. Nobody will believe them. And anyway, you have enough accountability in the bedroom with your cold eastern European wife—not that she’s here with you in DC. She’s holed up in New York, which pisses you off. So you ramp up the rhetoric about deporting immigrants. Maybe it could work in your favor; you’ve never liked her parents.
Meanwhile you have to shell out $25 mil to get out from under that disastrous university thing. You blame your personal attorney for that one; it was his bright idea. You cancel the last check you sent him and block his number from your phone. Hey, you don’t pay idiots who get you into lawsuits. And what’s he gonna do, anyway? He’ll get so much exposure from this, he’ll be thanking you for not paying him. Win-win.
You sleep with one of your aides, who tells you her two-year-old got vaccinated and then came down with autism. So you do the presidential thing and ask one of the Kennedys, those mackerel snappers, to investigate whether vaccines are safe. And people hit the roof! It made for fantastic ratings. No one gets the kind of ratings you get.
But then the inauguration happens and those fucking Commies at The New York Times run a picture comparing the size of your inauguration to the size of your predecessor’s. So what you do is, you get your new press secretary to talk to the press corps like they’re a bunch of naughty little children. “Scare ‘em,” you tell him. “They’re just a bunch of Jewboy fags anyway.” When reminded that there are actually women in the press corps as well, you wave it off. “If you get any flack, they’re probably on the rag. Tell them to go home.” Your press secretary stutters something and goes pale. Probably had sushi for lunch or some dumb-fuck thing.
Meanwhile there’s some skincare thing going on. People keep talking about emoluments and your blind trust. Maybe your daughter invested in L’Oreal or something. Your younger, dumber daughter; the older one knows how to make a buck. They’re talking about the hotels, too—someone said you would donate all the proceeds from foreign states who stayed in your hotels to the US Treasury. When you find that person, you will fire them in the most humiliating way possible, and you will enjoy it.
People have taken to the streets in joyous celebration, but for some reason, your aides (who are morons) think they’re rioting. One of them shows you a tape to prove it; you fire him on the spot. You won in a landslide; the people are happy, except for a few libtard cities. Them, you hit with the big guns: withholding federal funds. Sanctuary cities, my ass. Just wait until they’re up to their balls in illegals. They’ll come crying back. They’ll beg for forgiveness. Just to prove a point, you institute a travel ban to keep the rag-heads away. It makes you wonder: can you deport blacks? They do come from Africa. You make a note to ask your legal team about it.
Your friends—well, the people who want you to do business with them—want you to start dismantling regulations. It’s good for business, after all, and you promised to run the country like a business. So you cut the budgets for the National Institutes of Health, NOAA, the EPA, and National Parks. And those assholes actually start shit-posting about you on social media. Surely that’s a matter of national security—it makes you look weak. So you make the Department of Homeland Security try to find out who’s behind the tweets, but they threaten to counter-sue. You wonder if you can sic the IRS on them. What good is being president otherwise? Who’s serving their goddamn country, after all? You are! Your wife is still—still!—holed up in New York with your youngest son—with protection costing some $26 million, and thank God you don’t have to pay it—and you’re left to wander around the West Wing aimlessly, watching Fox News and feeling your blood pressure spike.
One day, just to get a little fucking relief, you green-light the Dakota Access and Keystone XL pipelines, because fuck the Indians. They lost. We won. Get over it, you think, and start calling a leading Democratic senator “Pocahontas.” Your approval ratings among your base spike. Now, you think as you call in to Fox and Friends, now you’re hitting your stride.
Your rivals change tack; they hate seeing you succeed, and the public loves you, they really do. You’re making America great again, whereas they just want to make everyone gay-marry their black Jewish neighbors. Everyone knows this. But people keep harping on Russia. Your attorney general recuses himself from the Justice Department’s ongoing Russian investigation. Justice for who? you think as you consider canning his ferrety ass. Meanwhile the director of the FBI is leading the investigation. This giant fuck-nut is the same guy who basically delivered the election to you by announcing a last-minute investigation of your political rival. WTF?
You are tired of people yapping on about responsibility and accountability and ethnics—you are handling the ethnics, do people not listen to the news?—so you axe the ethics course for incoming White House staff. It’s a waste of money and it just gives the lawyers more ammo. What do these people want, efficiency in government or lawyers taking over the world? You also blame your predecessor for bugging your office during the campaign. You wouldn’t put it past him. Thinks he’s so cool. You fire 46 of the prosecutors he appointed, and feel your blood pressure normalize. Things get better when you manage to sell $100 mils worth of real estate to some Russian investors. Now you’re cooking with gas.
But those commie libtards won’t quit. Now a federal judge in Kentucky is saying you incited violence against protestors during your campaign, when you stood up to some hecklers. All you did was yell “Get ‘em out of here!” You may have offered to pay the court costs for anyone who roughed them up, but that was just playing to the crowd. You certainly never meant to pay anyone’s court costs, Jesus H Christ. Apparently people were roughed up, but that’s what you get when you heckle the president. That’s what it means to be president, right? Let whoever hired the hecklers pay. Then the Anti-Defamation League reports that attacks on Jews have risen 86 percent since you’ve been elected. What do these people fucking want from you? You can’t stop bomb threats, or assaults, or grave desecrations.
You start wondering if you can deport the Jews.
But then you realize what the real problem is: it’s all these goddamned women. They’re the ones who can’t shut their traps. Because you don’t want to fuck them, they hate you, and they’re taking it out on you. So you take a stand, allowing states to withhold funding from Planned Parenthood. You also stop all funding for the UN Family Planning Agency. They ought to know their place: pregnant and in the kitchen. And your political rival is the worst of them. She’s still claiming she won the popular vote. Of course, you promised to set up a committee to investigate voter fraud so that it can’t happen again in 2020, but you never do. Instead, you call her claims “fake news.”
The term takes off. Of course it does. You’re a genius.
Meanwhile that little slant in North Korea keeps pushing your buttons. Fuck around and find out, you think, your fingers flying over your iPhone keyboard on Twitter. You’ll get Erdogan and Duterte and a bunch of other real red-blooded presidents together, and then he won’t seem so tough. Your Cabinet’s not on board. To pass the time during intelligence briefings—time you will never get back—you fantasize about ejector seats in the war room.
At night, you roam the Residence, tweeting and shotgunning entire bags of Cheetos. You thought this would be easier.
This creative piece was submitted as part of our March Theme: Disruption. If you would like to submit your own creative work to aAh! Magazine, please email aAh.Editor@gmail.com, and be sure to check our latest “Letter from the Editors” to find out next month’s theme.